


A Place To Call Home

by penmarks



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Fluff and Angst, John Watson-centric, John is a Bit Not Good, John is a Mess, John-centric, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parentlock, Save them, Sherlock - Freeform, also a mess, and sherlock is just, he's so sad, sort of parentlock? you'll se e
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-20 19:43:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9510083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penmarks/pseuds/penmarks
Summary: John Watson is a single father struggling to be there for his daughter in the wake of his wife's death. He sees a therapist that he lies to, his psychosomatic limp has returned and he's floundering under the weight of the world crashing down around him.Sherlock Holmes is a transient, recovering addict and a man struggling to cope with the aftermath of things out of his control. Nightmares still haunt him and his guilt shrouds his entire life.





	1. prologue

**THE SCREECHING** of tires on wet pavement rung out into the quiet night.

His seatbelt stopped his limp body from catapulting through the windshield. He laid draped over the steering wheel, wide eyes staring out the shattered driver-side window. There was one other vehicle he could see, crumpled and dented like a piece of tin foil across the way.

A child's empty car seat tumbled into the middle of the street.

All was silent but his wheezing breaths as he pushed them forcefully out of his aching chest. They turned to a cloud of vapor and dissipated before his heavy eyelids. He kept his eyes fixed on the other vehicle for as long as he could, but sleep was coming much too easily.

The wailing cacophony of sirens jolted him awake again. Ambulances, police cars, flashing lights, radios, shouting—so much shouting. Men screamed orders at each other, a woman was crying, but no one was coming for him yet. They were all congregated around the other car.

And then static. It was all he heard before the blissful comfort of unconsciousness swallowed him entirely.  

 

 


	2. dolor

**THE NIGHTMARES** never relented. There wasn't a single remedy he hadn't tried, and likewise, there hadn't been a single on that had worked.

John laid flat on his back for several minutes, staring straight up at the ceiling. He swore there were still shadows moving at his sides, cast long and ominous on his stark white bedroom walls. Gunshots still rang out and bounced off the inside of his skull, but soon dissipated.

Disoriented, he pulled the collar of his t-shirt over his face to wipe away the sweat on his brow, only to find the fabric had already been quite thoroughly soaked. He tried to push his terror down his constricted throat with little success.

Rosie. Rosie was carrying on. Wailing, screaming, on the other side of the house.

John forced himself up to the edge of his bed, still trembling. For a moment, he was struck with panic, terrified that the same thing that had shaken him awake had somehow gripped her, too. Once he had a moment of clarity and regained his bearings, breathing came easier. His best guess was that he'd been crying out in his sleep again, waking Rosie from her dead sleep in the most unpleasant way.

Most mornings he could handle her. He'd get her out of bed, bathed, and dressed with minimal fuss. As far as he was concerned, children were easy when they couldn't walk or talk. It was only a matter of deciphering the cause of the infernal caterwauling, and John prided himself on being able to do that on most days.

Most days, however, were not the four-month anniversary of one of the worst, if not the worst day of his life. And most day, he had the option of leaving his daughter with someone much more capable of caring for her, guilty as it made him feel.

However, today, the few friends he could bear to speak to were busy, and the ones he couldn't...

Well, he wasn't that desperate yet.

"Hello, darling," John cooed, leaning heavily on the edge of the crib. He rested his face in one hand, watching Rosie's face change from a contorted frown to a wide-eyed gaze of bewilderment, maybe even the shadow of a smile. "Good morning to you, too."

The start of their morning was dull, as per usual: diaper, bath, bottle, nap time, a cup of tea.

John dreaded the rest of the day to come. If he could sit, safe and unbothered, in his home with his daughter, he'd be closer to being content. He clutched his mug in one trembling hand as he brought it to his mouth, watching the blank television screen. Rosie slept soundly on the other end of the couch, as she usually did.

_"I don't think you could have given me a more perfect child."_

_"Oh, don't be silly, love. You made her, too."_

John sniffed and shook it off, but the words still lingered. She was still always there in that back of his mind like she had never left. Like she wasn't actually gone. He gave the empty flat a once-over, and that was reminder enough. There was a heap of dirty laundry collecting at the end of the hall. The clean laundry he'd done the week prior that had needed to air-dry still hung over dining room chairs.

_She's gone. She has been for months. She's not coming back._

Rosie stirred beside him as if he'd spoken out loud. Maybe he had. That happened some days, the worst ones. John reached out a hand and let her take hold of a few his fingers.

Her cool touch and gentle grasp were enough to ground him and remind him that this is where he needed to be. Not in his head, not in the past. He needed to be here, with his daughter. Their daughter. Her daughter.

It was easy to forget that there was at least one person left on the planet that needed him and loved him unconditionally.

_"You're not right when you're alone. It's a bad idea, leaving her here when you're like this."_

_"Please, Molly. I'll be back in the morning to get her. I just need... a minute."_

_"You mean you need a drink."_

_"No! No, I don't mean—Please, if you could just—"_

_"Promise me you'll call, John. Promise me you won't do anything foolish."_

_"Molly—"_

_"Promise me."_

John had been subjected to Molly's concerns in nearly a constant stream for the past several weeks. Her words had almost become his internal monologue. _Don't do this, don't touch that drink, don't dig yourself into this hole, you're better than this, do better for Rosie._ Coming from Molly's mouth, they'd felt sincere, but when he said them to himself, they just sounded hollow.

John wanted to visit her soon. He watched out of the driver side window as he passed her flat. His foot came off the gas out of habit. She wasn't home, but he still wanted to stop. Just to hear someone else tell him that he wasn't going mad, to hear someone else convince him that there _was_ a life outside of his guilt that was worth living.

He glanced back at Rosie's car seat and swallowed the lump in his throat that had been choking him all morning. She was still so quiet, making only the smallest of sounds when the car hit a bump in the street, or when one of her toys rattled. Every waking moment of every day, he was thankful for how peaceful she was.

Even as he transferred her from the car into the papoose, she made little fuss and seemed more than happy to be so close to her father.

John was still getting used to walking with a cane again. The task was twice as hard with a five-month-old attached to his chest and wet, uneven ground beneath his feet.

During the first month, he'd tried to deal with the pain. He didn't want to limp around like an elderly man; he wanted to soldier-up and walk it off. He'd dealt with it before, and he'd deal with it again. Soon, however, he found that the so-called psychosomatic ache in his leg was very real and very hard to manage without something to help him along.

That "something" was either maintaining a buzz throughout the day or, of course, the cane. The former had been his first option, but the latter proved to be a bit more socially acceptable and more conducive to medical work.

John glanced down at Rosie, her head resting peacefully on his chest as she bounced along to the beat of his uneven gait. He pulled the hood of her onesie over her head to shield her against the gentle mist that had begun to fall.

Once he crossed the entrance of the cemetery, John slowed his pace considerably in an attempt to put this off as long as he could. He usually wouldn't come here with Rosie, but today he didn't have another choice.

The path to her headstone had become second nature to John, and it wasn't until he was within a few yards that he looked up and realized someone had beaten him there. John shook his head as if that would make the sight before him make any more sense.

The man standing in front of his wife's grave stood still as a statue. His hands were clasped neatly behind his back; head bowed in respect or prayer.

John took his next steps with caution and started when the man lifted his head and looked at him with alarmingly blue eyes that seemed to pierce straight through him.

"I—Um—" John gestured weakly toward the marble headstone. "Were you... ah... ?"

His tongue dried up, throat seized. What about this stranger made him so incredibly pathetic and scared? Cobalt eyes were still surveying John's entire body; the man had yet to change his posture or utter a word while John was still trying to scrape up an intelligible sentence.

The man shook his mess of dark, dampened curls from his face and glanced back at the headstone. John couldn't help but follow his gaze, as if he was going to see any new information there.

_Mary Elizabeth Watson_

_Beloved mother, wife, and friend._

John scratched his cheek and pressed his lips together tightly, working up to speak a coherent thought.

"So, um. Were you... a friend? I don't—" John cleared his throat, squirming under the man's sharp gaze. "I don't... recognize you."

The man raised one eyebrow but still didn't say a word. And all too slowly, it dawned on John.

There was only one person that Mary had known that he did not. Someone he had never wished to know the name of, nor anything else about. And, of course, because this was how his life went, it was entirely possible that John was standing face to face with the man his wife had chosen over him time and time again.

Late at night when he was alone with their perfect, sleeping daughter. After work when she claimed to be running late. The mornings when she claimed to be leaving early to get a head start on her drudgery.

"Right. Brilliant." John scoffed and finally, his eyes fell from the stranger in front of him to the soft ground and his mud-caked sneakers. His left hand squeezed in a white-knuckled grip on his cane. "Of course, my luck. Well, I'll leave you two, then."

Just as he turned away, the soft, deep voice rang out and stopped him in his tracks.

"I'm... sorry?" As he turned back, the man looked over every inch of John's body once more, this time noticeably focusing on the child strapped to his chest and the wedding band on his left hand. He then looked back to the headstone and seemed to read the words on it more than once. John thought that surely, his dark eyebrows would reach his hairline with how fast they flew up. "Oh—You—No, no. I didn't know her, your wife. And certainly, we weren't—No, I'm afraid you're entirely mistaken, Mr. Watson."

John narrowed his eyes and stood up a bit straighter. "So you're saying... you're not... you didn't—"

"No, I didn't know your wife personally and I certainly never slept with her." Despite John nearly choking on his own tongue at his words, the tall, shadowy man continued. "Of course, this goes without saying, but I definitely never had an extended love affair with her that sucked the life out of your marriage and— _Ooh,_ caused that lovely little bundle of joy to be brought into this world as a failed attempt to rekindle your love for each other."

"How—" John's stomach plummeted. He blinked back the tears burning at the corners of his eyes, the man and the cemetery behind him blurred into a landscape of greys, blues, and greens. He cleared his throat and set his jaw. "You can't possibly—"

"Oh, I'm afraid it's quite possible."

"You—" John took in a sharp breath and squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his focus away for just a moment, just long enough to get a grip on his temper. When he tried to speak, the words got stuck in his throat and came out much more strained than he had intended. "Who the _hell_ do you think you are?"

"I do suppose that was a bit insensitive," the man said as he stepped forward with an extended hand that John completely ignored.

"Yeah." John snorted and looked away again, still trying to get a grip. "Just... Just a bit. Who the hell are you?"

"A passerby, a visitor. That's all, really." His hand was still outreached, expectant, and unmoving. John scoffed at him, expecting him to take the hint and give it up. "Most people, you know, shake."

"Yeah, thanks," John muttered. Despite his anger, took half a step forward and shook the stranger's chilled hand. "Think I could get a name now?"

As if on queue, Rosie began to stir. John looked down in shock; he'd admittedly forgotten about her, regardless of the weight hanging off the front of him.

_Brilliant._

Not only had he encountered some random, disrespectful, stranger at his wife's grave, but now his daughter was minutes away from a full-blown crying fit. He'd just wanted a few minutes, a short visit, a chance to be alone with his wife and their daughter.

John clenched his teeth and swallowed his outrage. He bounced on his heels and hummed an absent tune to Rosie, offering her a tight smile.

"Holmes." At first, John didn't respond but soon realized that he was being addressed, and looked back up. He opened his mouth to form a question, only to be interrupted once again. "Name's Sherlock Holmes. I'll leave you and your family to your... meeting."

With that, Sherlock turned with a swish of his navy trench coat and began his trek out of the cemetery, leaving John Watson thoroughly confused and frankly, a bit shaken.


	3. choler

**_SHERLOCK HOLMES_. ** The name hung over John's head like a heavy storm cloud long after he'd left the cemetery.

All he'd wanted was a few minutes. A few minutes to talk to Rosie about a mother she'd never remember. He'd made a habit of taking her along with him on the worst days, so he could reminisce about the good, forget the bad, and help Rosie form an idea of her mother even if she'd never remember the things John told her now.

But no, Sherlock Holmes—whoever the hell he was or _thought_ he was—had spoiled it for them. John stood in front of Mary's headstone for several minutes, bouncing Rosie as she fussed and carried on. It was too much.

His words caught in his throat, and nothing he wanted to say seemed right anymore. His thoughts were tainted with Sherlock Holmes' condescending words.

John walked back to his car, where he sat in the passenger seat and held Rosie close. She clung to him, eerily silent, as if she knew. It was the kind of small comfort that he needed, to have her little arms around his neck and her tired head on his shoulder.

Eventually, he'd pulled himself together, buckled her in the car seat, and made it back home with a heavy heart. It wasn't even noon yet. Rosie was wide-eyed and ready to do _something_. That was what Molly always said, _"she doesn't know what she's doing yet, but she knows she's trying to do something!"_

John lowered himself to his knees and spread out a blanket for her in the living room, where she laid with a wide, toothless grin and sparkly eyes. He couldn't help but smile back, despite how heavily everything else in the world weighed down him, Rosie was always a bright spot.

His phone screen lit up on the carpet beside them.

 **Molly Hooper** _now_

_Are you still doing alright? I can come by..._

John sat back against the couch and looked down at Rosie flailing her arms and legs and squealing excitedly at the muted cartoon he'd put on. With a heavy sigh, he slid the text open.

_Are you still doing alright? I can come by if you need me to after work. It's no problem at all, honest._

John's thumbs hovered over the keyboard, his thoughts going directly to the half-empty bottle on top of the fridge. He knew he could finish it tonight, easy. He definitely felt like he needed it, too. Molly knew that. She always knew, and that's why she was asking. She was hoping he'd say yes so she could come over and lecture him, maybe even confiscate any drink she could find.

He wouldn't do that to her. Not tonight. Tonight, he'd save her the worry, let her have the evening to herself without having to fret over his alcoholic tendencies.

_Today is okay so far. It's been good. As good as it can be. Thank you, Molly. I really appreciate it._

 

* * *

 

 

 ****The following week, John worked up the courage to ask Molly if she could take Rosie for the afternoon. He'd been doing pretty well, but a break was becoming something of a necessity.

He needed to visit Mary, and he needed to do it alone. He needed to sit down in the grass, stretch out his leg, and blubber on like a baby about how sorry he was. Apparently, it was written all over his face. Molly gave him the same worried, mothering look that she always did, but this time it was followed shortly by reluctant acceptance.

"If you ever get tired of her, I can always call—"

"I could never," Molly said. She squeezed Rosie closer to her, hovering in the doorway of his flat, diaper bag slung over her shoulder. "You know that's not what this is about. You know that's not... why I worry."

"Molly, I'm not... I don't—" John feigned a chuckle and scratched the back of his head. Her composure and pointed glare didn't waver. John nodded and swallowed the growing knot in his throat. His words came out small and scratchy. "I don't think about that anymore. I wouldn't... do that to my daughter."

"I know." Molly finally looked away from him, down at her shoes. Her jaw flexed a few times before she worked the words out. "I know you wouldn't. And I worry that you... that one of these times you'll leave her with me so you can forget—"

"Hey, hey, hey," John choked out, his hand instinctively coming up to touch her shoulder. "I would not do that to you or Rosie. You hear me? I wouldn't—I could never do that. Sometimes I just... need to... I just need a minute to breathe. That's all, that's it. I don't—Come here, come here."

John let out a shaky breath as he pulled Molly into his chest. Rosie stuck awkwardly between them as they embraced. When they separated, Molly was wearing something closer to a smile.

"All right, then." John chuckled and straightened his back. "Nothing to worry about. Not a thing."

 

* * *

 

The rain had persisted, and John found that the weather as he trudged through the cemetery was eerily identical to the week prior. Whether it was the cold or the wetness or just his overall rubbish mood, his leg was aching more than he was used to. It dragged at his side like it was broken off at the hip.

His shoulder hardly ever hurt this way, and that was the site of an actual through-and-through bullet wound. Ella had tried to explain away that nature of psychosomatic aches and pains long before John had met his wife.

After Mary died and the pain came back, she withdrew and watched quietly as John limped his way into her office each week.

As a doctor, John hated to be talked at about things like inexplicable pain. He was unwilling to accept that such tangible pain was a figment of his damaged psyche. There had to be a medical explanation, that was just how it worked.

Science, cause and effect, injury, neurons, nerve endings. But Ella was a different kind of doctor, and she had knowledge and experience beyond John's depth.

Part of him knew that's why her logical explanations miffed him so thoroughly. The rest of him would continue to roll his eyes and scoff, insisting that he had sustained an injury to his left leg that he just couldn't remember yet.  
_"PTSD and all that."_

But of course, as a therapist, Ella knew more about PTSD than John did. He never seemed to be able to convince her that he knew what he was talking about, no matter how well she faked it for his benefit.

John sucked in a sharp breath and slowed down, bracing himself heavily on his cane for a moment. The pain shot up and down, around and across, and it never seemed to have a source or epicenter.

It just _was_. And it _was_ everywhere today, consuming the entirety of the limb. Eyes screwed tightly shut, he tried to think of the questions he'd be asking patients that came into the clinic with claims of this kind of pain.

Where does it hurt, specifically? How does it hurt? Is it numb? Tingling? Shooting? Sharp? Dull? Aching? Widespread or concentrated? _Everywhere, all of the above._

At that point, he'd either shoo the patient away or send them for further testing because those kinds of answers were medically inconclusive and therefore chalked up to drug-seeking behavior.

His chest was heaving, or was it collapsing? All John knew was that he couldn't make this amount of pain make sense, and that was the worst of it all. Doctor John Watson, self-proclaimed superhero by the name of Rationalization Man, couldn't even make sense of what he was feeling.

"Doctor Watson?" John lifted his head but didn't open his eyes. His temper flared as he heard the wet ground give way under a pair of gargantuan feet. "Doctor Watson, are you feeling all right?"

 _Of course, he's here. Of course, today, right now, this utter_ tit _is here, watching the world give way beneath me. Of course._

"Fine, thanks." John opened his eyes and forced himself to stand up straighter. "So, what is it? Are you stalking me?"

"Not at all." Sherlock fastened a single button of his coat and shoved his hands forcefully into the pockets. "As I said before, I'm visiting."

"My wife. You're visiting _my_ wife."

John watched with narrowed eyes as Sherlock began to form an answer, but apparently scratched the idea and went for a different one.

"No, not really. Visiting someone else, Mary's on the way." He cleared his throat and slow-blinked at John a few times. "I heard about the accident. I'm—"

"Yeah, it was in the paper," John grumbled. He forced his bum leg forward until he had taken enough steps to put Sherlock behind him.

"I was trying to communicate my empathy for your loss, Doctor Watson," Sherlock called after him. "I didn't mean to offend."

"Holmes..." John said.

The lightbulb had finally clicked on after a week of wondering who the hell this man thought he was. Everything was coming back to him at once, everything he'd heard from Greg, Molly, the papers, and he was unable to help himself from slowly spinning back around on his heel.

_Bloody Sherlock Holmes. Why hadn't he realized sooner?_

"Sherlock... Holmes. I've heard about you from a lot of people. And you know what? I know that you are not someone who knows the meaning of the word _empathy_."

"You've—" He looked baffled, dumbfounded by John's words.

 _Good,_ John thought, _about damn time someone caught him off guard._

But he couldn't seem to stop there. It wasn't enough, not after what he'd said that first time they'd met. John wasn't sure if it was the fact that this man—this _machine_ —was ruining every opportunity he had to have a moment alone with his dead wife, or if it was his repressed anger finally boiling over.

"Oh, I've heard the stories," John spat. He took several steps closer, within arm's reach. "Greg has quite a lot to say about you. I'm quite certain I've heard almost all of it."

Sherlock didn't even blink; he held John's stare like it was some sort of contest. His face only changed slightly as he spoke.

"Greg?"

"Yes, Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector, Scotland Yard? You've given him quite the run for his—"

"Oh, Lestrade! He's calling himself Greg now?" Sherlock gave a short scoff and folded his arms across his chest. "That's clever."

"Calling hims—That's his _name_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes so far into his head that John hoped they'd stick there. As far as he was concerned, Sherlock was pouring kerosene on the blaze.

"Do you just show up here to torment me? You must be following me."

"I assure you—"

"Leave me alone. I'm asking you—I don't want any part of your... whatever you think you're doing. "

"Funny... how that works." Sherlock gave John a quick once-over, nodded, and turned to leave.

There was no reason he needed to keep feeding this maniac ammunition, but John couldn't stop his mouth running.

"Funny how _what_ works?"

John lurched forward, but before he'd even finished his step, Sherlock had turned back to face him.

"Last week, you assumed I was the man your wife had all-but left you for. You were prepared to leave me alone at her grave until I assured you that you were mistaken."

John set his jaw and gave an absent, single nod that he immediately regretted. A smirk pulled up one corner of Sherlock's mouth.

_Bastard._

"Today, you turn up... buzzed, drunk? Without your daughter, outraged that I—someone you now know as a complete stranger—have beaten you not once, but twice, to visit her."

John clenched his jaw tightly for a moment and adjusted his fingers around the handle of his cane. He cleared his throat and looked anywhere but Sherlock's face.

"And that's... You think... That's... _funny._ "

"Is 'interesting' a less off-putting word? I'm never sure. 'Funny' just always tends to slip out." He shook his head once, looking off to the side before bringing his focus back to John. "But to answer your question, yes."

"But you didn't _beat_ me to anything. Obviously, you hang around here or something. Wouldn't be shocked, honestly." John snorted and continued to survey the cemetery around them. "Either that or you're following me. So which is it?"

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, his eyes running up and down John. His leg, his cane, across his face. It made John squirm. Finally, Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and his gaze fell to his feet.

" _Ob_ viously," he muttered.

John had half a mind to feel like he was being mocked, but didn't have it him anymore to be necessarily angry about it. He was in shock, and frankly, a bit impressed.

"How did you know that I..."

"Frankly, Doctor, you reek. Doesn't take a master deductionist to—" He gave his head a shake like he was trying to put himself back on track. "Anyway, I should hope you'll be sensible and call yourself a cab."

John's mouth fell open as he tried to form the word "how" again. He was interrupted as Sherlock heaved a sigh and lazily pointed in the general direction of John's right hand.

"Should you reach into your right pocket, you'll find there's more than enough fare for a ride back into central London, plus a generous tip for the hapless cabbie who gets to take you there."

Sure enough, John reached his hand into his coat pocket and curled his fingers around the paper bills. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock nod and turn his back. He looked up to call after him, another question that would have started with " _how in the hell_..." But even without having sights on him, Sherlock was still a step ahead.

"Good day, Doctor Watson."  


	4. stifle

**JOHN WOKE** with a start. Eyes wide and chest heaving, he wasn’t what had jolted him into consciousness. Disoriented, he turned to take in his surroundings and found a terrible crick in his neck that radiated up to the base of his skull. He had made himself as small as possible in the backseat of his car, taking up the minimal amount of space between Rosie’s car seat and the door. Every joint in his body screamed in protest as he forced himself into a sitting position and stretched his arms behind his head. 

As slowly as he regained blood flow to all his extremities, the memory of that afternoon came back to him. 

Sherlock Holmes, the folded bills weighing heavily in John’s coat pocket, the rain that had started to fall shortly after he was left alone in the cemetery, and his decision to sleep off the buzz in his car. John never had any intention of catching a cab, but he did count the money that Sherlock had managed to slip in his pocket. 

Thirty quid. Almost twice what he needed to get home. Whenever he saw Sherlock again, he would give him back the money. What kind of ridiculous man just went around dishing out cash out to strangers?

John pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping for some relief from the pain splintering in his temples. He was too old to be crashing in the back seat of his car until he was safe enough to drive. 

As he unfolded himself from the car and into a standing position, he half-regretted not taking a cab. His entire body ached, and he knew it would continue to do so for several days. 

John slowly made his way around to the driver’s side door. His eyes lingered on the arch of the cemetery entrance while his hand gently grasped the door handle. 

The sun had long since set and the shadows, black as tar and dense as he’d ever seen, sent a chill down his spine. Despite that, he still took several steps toward the entrance, his sneakers crunching across the gravel so loudly that John was sure he’d wake half the city. 

A text ringtone went off and his phone vibrated against his leg, and he swore that he could feel his entire body trying to separate from his skin. 

“Christ,” he muttered as he fumbled for the device with shaking hands.

 

 **Molly Hooper** _now_

Are you doing alright? Where the hell did you… 

**Molly Hooper** _10 mins ago_

John? Are you ignoring me? Because I really… 

**Molly Hooper** _1 hour ago_

I just wanted to double check when you were… 

**Molly Hooper** _ 2 hours ago  _

I’m guessing you probably fell asleep but I just… 

**Molly Hooper** _4 hours ago_

Hey, when did you say you were coming to pick up… 

 

John shook his head and slid open the messages. Guilt knotted up in his stomach. Molly didn’t deserve this. He started to type a message back, but ultimately decided it would just be easier to call. She answered on the second ring.

“Jesus Christ, John! I was about to call the bloody pol—” 

“I know, I  _ know _ .” John turned back to his car and steadied himself on the hood before completely bending over and pressing his forehead to the cold plastic. “I know, I’m the bloody worst. And I’m so sorry. I fell asleep and—”

 “I would’ve appreciated you at least telling me you were lying down for a nap. I was worried absolutely sick, John. I was—” Molly cut herself off and huffed a sharp breath into the receiver. “I’m just glad you’re all right.” 

“Yeah,” John sighed, lifting his head from the hood of his car. “And I would’ve told you I was lying down, but it was a bit… Improvised.”  

“So you passed out,” Molly deadpanned. John opened his mouth to cut her off, but she kept going, her voice growing more hysterical every few words. “It’s not my job to mother you, but I will not idly stand by and watch you kill yourself while you leave your daughter with me so it’s easier for you to—”

“That’s not what’s happening! That’s not… It’s not…” John drew in a deep breath and glanced back at the cemetery entrance, half expecting to see someone there watching him. “I’ll… I can be there within the hour to get her. Is that… Can we do that? Is that okay?”

Molly was silent for a long stretch. So long that John glanced at his phone screen to make sure the call hadn’t dropped. But soon, she spoke, and it was much softer this time, much more understanding, and much closer to the way he was used to hearing Molly speak.

“No, it’s… It’s fine. You need a break. I get that. Rosie can stay here overnight, and when you’re over this in the morning—”

“Molly, no. You don’t—”

“I know I don’t. But you’re not going to accept any other kind of help, so I’m doing what I can.” 

John fell silent, unsure of what to say. He dragged the toe of his sneaker through the gravel, tracing absent circles in the stone. Molly didn’t continue, and he knew it was his turn to speak, but there was only one thing that he could seem to get out.

“I’m sorry.” John cleared his throat and straightened his back. “I’m… I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve this… kindness. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I—”

“Stop it. You’re my friend. And I… If this is the only way you will allow me to help you, then I will not hesitate to do whatever I can.” Molly sniffed, and John heard her shift on the other end of the phone. “Do whatever you need to do, okay? Just… be careful. Take care of yourself. And let me know when you’ll be coming ‘round to get Rosie.” 

John opened his mouth to pour out more gratitude and apologies, only to realize that the line had gone dead. He was alone again in the dark, standing in front of the cemetery entrance with no one there to stop him.

 

* * *

 

 

He was halfway to Mary’s headstone when he realized that he had left his cane on the floor of his car, but decided that he was too far along to double back and make the trek a second time. His hands were still trembling, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that had been hanging over him since Molly’s text. 

Everything was silent. There were no insects, no sounds of traffic; only the noise of his left leg dragging alongside him and the heaving of his own breath. Somehow that was scarier than the thought of anything else that might be lurking in the dark.

The only thing that guided him through the dampened grass was his phone flashlight and the muscle memory of walking this path. Finally, he came to the place he’d been trying to go for two weeks. And finally, they were alone. Without hesitation, John sat himself down on the wet ground, leaned back against the headstone, and closed his eyes. 

He took several deep breaths, trying to bring himself down from the wired state of anxiety that seemed perpetual lately. It was all okay. And it would all be okay. He needed to do this, and he would continue to need to until he could live a functional life alone. 

“Listen…” He started, working through the tightness in his throat. “I know it’s been a little while. Things got tricky for a bit. I’m here… now.” 

John sucked in a deep breath through his nose, his right hand going to his left ring finger. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter as he massaged the place where his wedding band used to rest. 

“I had this thought that… That things would be easier if I didn’t have a constant… reminder. It’s not. It’s just not. It’s not easier. It—” 

He swallowed hard, determined to push the words out. 

“It just gets harder every day. Every single day. It feels like I’m… like I’m doing it all  _ wrong _ . Like I’m disappointing our daughter and… I’m just sorry. Because if I had… I dunno, if I had done… better… So you didn’t feel like you had to—”

John opened his eyes. It took him a moment to readjust to the dark. There was nothing but shadows, outlines of grave markers and memorials. No one was there listening to him. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, still massaging his ring finger. A chill shook his entire frame, the cold marble of the headstone seeping through his jacket and to his skin. His pants were damp, and he was sure his socks were wet, too. 

But he still sat for several more minutes, convincing himself that he wasn’t sitting alone in the cemetery. He was having a conversation with his wife. One that he had every few weeks, in different words each time. It never got easier and only ever made him feel better until he got home to their empty flat. 

“I really wish I didn’t make it… So you felt like you had to—like you needed to find someone else.” He let out a long exhale, hoping for some relief from the weight pressing down on his chest, but received little. “And I’m… sorry. I’m so sorry for that, Mary. It’s—That’s on me. ”

And then he could practically hear Molly’s words in his head. 

_ You’re still blaming yourself. Don’t do this. You can’t think that way.  _

But he couldn’t seem to stop. John knew he deserved to be abandoned by his wife because he had abandoned her, first. Then there was burning in his throat that he couldn’t shake, and that was his cue to leave; he always left before it got too real, too hard to face the reality of his situation. 

When he got home, he didn’t bother to change out of the wet jeans sticking to him or the t-shirt that reeked of nightmare-induced perspiration. He only settled into the couch and blankly watched the news until he couldn’t take it anymore.

The flat was too quiet anyway, but without Rosie there, John was completely alone, and the silence was deafening. Before long, he found himself back in the car, lazily maneuvering the familiar route to Molly’s front step. 

She seemed surprised to see him when she opened the door, but relieved in a way. Her eyebrows shot up and then her face settled as she stepped aside and let him in. John could tell she was exhausted by the way she dragged her feet through the kitchen and continually switched Rosie from one hip to the other. 

“I can take her if you—”

“That’s okay,” Molly said, turning her away from John’s outstretched arms. Rosie’s head eyes were struggling to stay open as she tried to keep her head up with little success. “She’s nearly asleep; I’ll put her down in a few minutes. I’m making tea. Do you—”

“Yes, thank you.” John cleared his throat and situated himself in one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table. The space was wide open; the room painted a stark white that blinded his tired, itching eyes. “You repainted.”

“Yeah.” Molly bounced Rosie as she set the kettle on the stove, consistently keeping her back to John as she got down two mugs and a canister of sugar. 

“When’d you do that? It smells… new.” John had to cringe at his own attempt at small talk. Molly was so tired and it hurt him. It was his fault. “I would’ve come ‘round to help if I knew you—”

“Phil and Greg helped. Sally, too. Well, Sally was the one who said I should do it. Greg bought the paint, I roped Phil in.” 

“Well, it looks… nice.”

“I’m still getting used to it.” Molly finally turned to face John, but made a point of not making direct eye contact. Rosie’s head had finally fallen to rest on her shoulder. “I’m going to put her down. Kettle should be boiling soon.” 

She was out of sight before John could turn to thank her. Despite the warning, John still jumped out of his skin when the kettle began to whistle. Quietly, he made them each a cup of tea and moved into the living room, where television was set to a muted late-night talk show. With a heavy sigh, John settled into the couch with his mug of tea on the coffee table at his feet. 

Molly swept back into the room with an exasperated breath and dropped heavily into the armchair across from John. 

“Did she do okay? Sometimes she’s stubborn about actually getting to sleep.” John tested his tea but immediately reeled back from the still-steaming cup. “Christ.” 

“She’s an angel. The easiest baby I’ve ever looked after.” Molly pulled her feet up under her and took her mug from the other end of the coffee table. “Are you okay?” 

The question caught John off guard. He was staring down into his tea, but immediately he looked up at Molly. Her eyebrows were tightly knit together, her lips set in a firm line. 

“Am I—‘Course. I’m… yeah, I’m all right. Of course I’m all right. Why do… Why do you ask?”

“John.” Clearly, she was not having it tonight. John shifted in his seat, clutching the handle of his mug tighter. Her eyes ran over him languidly. “Where’s your cane?”

“I—” He cleared his throat and set his tea back down, rattled by Molly’s sudden interrogation. “The car. I left in the car when I—”

“You still talk to her, don’t you?” Molly hadn’t moved from her position—feet tucked under her, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, cup of tea balanced carefully on one knee. “I’m worried about you. That’s all. I… I’ve told you a million times. I—”

“And I’ve told you, there is nothing to worry about! I’m not—I don’t have that problem anymore. I’m not just going to leave you with my daughter and then… I wouldn’t—” John had to stop himself to give his mouth a moment to catch up to his brain. Because Christ, it was going a million miles a minute. He had expected to come to Molly for a quiet night and some tea, but of course this was what he got. “We’ve had this conversation. That’s not what’s going on. Just because I visit my wife’s grave does not mean I’m going to kill myself.” 

Silence. 

Molly’s gaze was much more absent now, her face still frozen in the same scowl. 

“Now, I appreciate the concern, but I’m perfectly—”

“I ask because I want to know, you know that, right? Not because…” Molly cut herself off, finally moving her eyes to the silent television as if she couldn’t take even looking in John’s general direction. “Not because I want the same tired lie you tell everyone else.”

“The same—It’s not a  _ lie _ !” John pinched the bridge of his nose, warding off another incoming headache. “I’m doing fine as any bloke would be after losing… I lost my whole life, Molly. I lost everything. Absolutely everything.” 

Molly turned back to him; her lips parted like she wanted to spit back a hurtful rebuttal that she couldn’t quite bring herself to say. John knew what the words were that she was biting back. 

_ You didn’t lose Rosie. You didn’t lose me.  _

It was written all over her face and immediately John sunk deep into the couch and pressed both palms into his eyes. It was too late for this. He was too tired for this. 

“It’s not okay,” Molly finally said. Her voice was much softer now, but she sounded even more sure of the words she was saying. “This isn’t okay, John. How much you blame yourself… It’s not right. It’s not… healthy.” 

John looked across the room at her, utterly at a loss. He couldn’t do this with her, not now, not today.

Not ever, if he could manage it. 

“I’m sorry for interrupting your… I’m sorry.” He clambered into a standing position and steadied himself on the arm of the couch. “I shouldn’t have interrupted your night. I’ll be by in the morning to, um… get her. Goodnight, Molly.” 

“Oh, stop it! Just stop it.” John turned back to see Molly sitting forward, head in hands and fingers tangled tightly in her hair. “Christ, John, just take the couch. It’s nearly midnight. Just get some sleep.” 

Molly stood and took her tea back to her bedroom. She didn’t come back out for the rest of the night. He could have left and she’d be nothing more than disappointed when he showed up in the morning to get Rosie. But John was exhausted and the couch was not the worst he could do, especially after taking a nap in the back seat of his car.  

He settled in relatively easily, leaving the TV on for light and a distraction from the silence that hung over Molly’s flat. John didn’t know how she did it, living alone. Granted, there were a lot of nights that she spent out, or had friends stay the night. 

But John knew this was what her nights were like for the most part. 

Maybe that was why he’d decided to stay, because he knew exactly how easily it drove a person mad, being alone all the time. 

 


	5. perturb

**A KNOCK** came at the door, breaking John from his half-asleep daze directed at the muted TV. With a groan, he unfolded himself from the couch. He didn’t think he’d locked the door, but perhaps he’d forgotten to leave it open for Mary.

As John reached for the doorknob and found it unlocked, flashing lights at the curb caught his eye. His stomach sank to the soles of his feet. He yanked the door open to see Greg standing there, a shadow of himself. The rain was coming down harder than it had been all day, and he was trying his hardest to shield himself beneath the eaves.

“John, Jesus, I—” He pulled his jacket closer to his body, taking a minuscule step forward, looking for shelter. John didn’t budge. “Listen… Can I—I think I should come in, sit down.”

John tilted his head, his eyebrows coming together in a deep furrow. He glanced between Greg and the flashing lights on his squad car. Why would he leave the lights on?

“Greg…”

“Please, just—” Greg moved to take another step forward and John squared off, throwing an arm up across the doorway. “C’mon, mate, I’m freezing. We just need to… Just lemme in, alright?”

There was a glint in his eyes that John couldn’t quite pinpoint. It scared him to see Greg shaking, shivering, and desperate.

“What is going on,” John said. It didn’t come out like a question. His jaw was clenched tightly, unprepared for whatever news Greg was delivering at this hour. “You… Tell me what’s going on.”

“Listen, I don’t know how to tell you this. I just—Mate…”

“Greg… What’s—” John choked out, swaying on his feet.

It was Mary. Christ, there was nothing else it could be. _It had to be Mary._

John hung heavily on the doorknob, losing his balance as Greg spoke. The words coming out of his mouth sounded distorted and watery. They didn’t make sense. His entire body caved in into itself as Greg reached out and pulled him into a tight hug.

John’s knees buckled beneath him and Greg struggled to get his feet back under him.

“Hey, hey, hey. You’re okay. It’s okay.” Greg’s hands were pressing firmly into John’s shoulders, trying to stand him up straight. “It’s alright, you’re fine. John? John, can you hear me? It’s alright. It’s okay.”

“Greg—” He cut himself off as his eyes came up to meet the man standing in front of him. It wasn’t his friend; it wasn’t Greg at all.

The flashing police lights behind him morphed into blackness, and the tall, lanky frame of Sherlock Holmes was outlined like a scene out of a movie.

“What the… hell?” John gasped, stumbling backward, into the living room. When he landed on his back, it was on soft soil and wet grass.

_“Oh, Lestrade! He’s calling himself Greg now?”_

Sherlock’s voice was echoing around John, engulfing him as the shadowy man stood over his trembling body.

_“… lovely little bundle of joy to be brought into this world as a failed attempt to rekindle your love for each other.”_

_“ … beaten you twice…”_

“You didn’t beat me at anything, you bloody psychopath!” John screamed into the void as it swallowed him up. “Leave me alone!”

_“Be sensible, Doctor.”_

Rosie was crying somewhere. She sounded a thousand miles away until John opened his eyes and finished waking up. It unsettled him that his pulse was only slightly elevated. Was he getting used to this, the nightmares? He squinted into the sunlight flooding through the open curtains, trying to see into the kitchen.

“Sh, sh, sh. Oh, I know. He’ll be up soon, I promise.” Molly cooed from the next room. John shielded his eyes from the light as she appeared in the doorway, pointing at him. “See? There he is! Good morning!”

“The curtains were strictly necessary?” John slid into a sitting position and rolled his neck. Molly cracked a smile as she delivered a very fussy Rosie to his outstretched arms. “Hello, darling. What seems to be the matter?”

“She’s already had half a bottle. Changed her, too.” Molly crossed her arms and leaned against the arm of the couch. “I reckon she just missed her Daddy.”

“That so, little one?” John pulled away so he could look into Rosie’s face. There were no tears on her cheeks, but she was still fussing. Softer than the desperate, breathless cries that he’d woken up to. John smiled at her and let her head fall back to his shoulder. He held her close and kissed her temple. “I know. Oh, I know.”

“Are you alright?” John’s head snapped around to look at Molly but he settled back from his defensiveness. He was sure he had to have been shouting in his sleep. “You were… Mumbling. Talking to Greg, I think.”

“Ah, yeah.” John shifted in his seat and wrapped his arms tighter around Rosie. “I’m… it’s fine.”

Molly didn’t have to say anything before John elaborated. He remembered her words from the night before. _I’m asking because I want to know._

“Did…” He started, then reevaluated and tried again. “Listen, I’m asking you this because I want you to be honest with me, Molly.”

“Of course.” She nodded and slipped down from the arm of the couch so she was sitting beside him. “Of course, ask away.”

“Did we… As someone close to us, do you think Mary and I…” _God_ , why was this so hard? He started again, slower, trying to gain his bearings. “Do you think—Why do think we… had Rosie?”

A laugh began to fall out of Molly’s mouth, but she contained it immediately when she looked into John’s face and saw that he wasn’t kidding in the slightest.

“Oh, God. You’re serious.”

“Of course I’m serious.”

She shook her head, as if to clear her thoughts. Like the idea had never occurred to her, and she’d never expected this question to come up. John didn’t think that could be true. When they had announced that Mary was pregnant, he saw the disappointment behind his friend's eyes.

They _knew_ , and when John had seen it at first, it startled him. He was elated to be having a child and he didn’t understand the dullness behind the smiles of the people he cared about most. That is, until Sherlock Holmes had stepped up to the plate and spelt it out, loud and bloody clear.

“John… It’s really not my place—”

“But I’m asking you. I’m making it your place. I’m asking…” John scoffed and adjusted himself on the couch so he could face her. Rosie squirmed on his shoulder. “I’m just asking you a question, Molly. It’s—”

“Why does it matter what I think? You _know_. It doesn’t matter what I say, it won’t change what you know, whatever that may be.” John looked at her harder, urging her forward. He wouldn’t back down from this. He had to know that Sherlock wasn’t the only one. “Why? Why does this suddenly matter? Did someone say something? Oh, God, was it Greg? I swear, he doesn’t really think—John, did he—”

Molly fell silent. John watched the realization settle over her. Her eyes widened, her eyebrows shot up, her mouth fell open and stayed that way for a moment while she gathered her words.

“Oh, my God.” He saw her try to shake it off, but the bewilderment painted across her face was stuck there. “Oh, God. It was him, wasn’t it? You’ve met him. He—That _bastard_!”

“Wh—”

“John, I swear to God! If you tell me that Sherlock Holmes planted this thought in your head—”

“No. It wasn’t—Sherlock Holmes?” John forced out a dry chuckle and carefully shifted Rosie to his other shoulder. She was dozing off despite Molly raising her voice. “Who is that, anyway?”

John was left stuttering on the couch as Molly sprung up and marched into the kitchen. He helplessly followed after, trying to piece together a coherent and convincing sentence. Before he could get anything out, Molly had turned back to face him again, bracing herself on the back of a chair.

“You are a rubbish liar. You always have been, John. And I am _telling_ you—”

“This is not a big deal! It’s really—This is nothing. Forget I said anything. I didn’t mean to upset you I just…” He heaved a sigh and tried to relax so Molly could, too. “I just wanted your opinion.”

“Rubbish liar,” she grumbled as she turned her back and went about preparing the kettle for tea. “It’s one thing for him to torment Phil and Sally. In fact, that’s quite funny. And Greg, well—Greg’s job is hard enough, he just doesn’t deserve it, but I can still deal with that. But _this_ —”

“Molly, _please_ —”

“This crosses the line! I will not stand for him using my friend’s departed wife against him! It’s just… It’s _cruel_!”

When Molly turned back to face John, she was red in the face, brow furrowed and mouth pressed into a tight line. They just stared at each other for a moment, John shocked and looking for words to say, Molly with her hands on her hips and eyes piercing right through him.

And finally, “Just ignore him, John. Honestly. Just… Don’t speak to him. I don’t know where you ran into that man but for your own good, stay away from him.”

_As if I would seek him out._

“Right, yeah.” John nodded once and scratched his cheek. “Of course. I—He’s… Yeah. He sounds like… Ah, an arse.”

Molly’s glare quickly turned to a bored stare as she realized John was still trying to play dumb.

“John, please.”

“Right, well, thank you for letting us stay the night. I’ll text you,” John said. And with that, he was on his way out. He heard Molly stuttering and insisting that he stayed for tea, but she made no move to stop him from walking out.

 

* * *

 

Weeks passed before John saw Sherlock again. He had just started to forget about him, his cruel words and prying eyes. There was actually visible sunlight beating down on London, and the weight on John’s shoulders had gradually lifted and things were starting to feel generally all right again.

That changed shortly after he knocked on the front door of 221B Baker Street. For the first time in weeks, John fought off a smile as he waited for Mrs. Hudson to open the door with Rosie on her hip. He was actually excited to take Rosie home and spend the evening with her, excited to have parental responsibilities.

When the door swung open, John’s immediate reaction was to laugh. A short, dry laugh that he punctuated with a glare and pursed lips. It couldn’t be real. Absolutely not. He turned in a full circle on the sidewalk, looking for cameras or a giggling Molly Hooper.

“Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said. A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, the bastard. “I suspect you’re here to retrieve your—”

“Sod off.” John shouldered past him and ventured into the flat. “Mrs. Hudson!”

When he was met with silence, John turned on his heel back to Sherlock, who was leaning in the doorway, smug as ever.

“Why the hell are you here? This is—What the hell is actually wrong with you? I don’t understand. What kind of game do you think—”

“As entertaining as you are, Doctor, I must interrupt and inform you that I do, in fact, live here.” At John’s flared nostrils and flushed cheeks, Sherlock simply pushed off from the doorway and took a few steps closer to him. “So, really, I could be asking _you_ —”

“Oh, you _utter_ —”

John and Sherlock turned at the sound of Mrs. Hudson coming down the stairs with a beaming Rosie in her arms.

“Oh, it is you, John. I thought you’d be another hour or so,” she said.

“Mm, no. Got out a bit early. Slow day.” He met her at the bottom of the stairs and took Rosie, a smile immediately breaking out on his face despite the fiery indignation coursing through his veins. “How was she?”

“Oh, just perfect. I’d spend all day with her if I could. Such a happy little one. You really have done a lovely job, John.” Then, as if remembering Sherlock was standing there, she shook her head and gestured toward the tall, rigid man. “I suppose you’ve met Sherlock, then? He—”

“She’s my housekeeper,” Sherlock said, throwing an arm around her shoulders that was immediately smacked away.

“Sherlock Holmes!” Mrs. Hudson gave John an unamused tilt of the head. “I’m his landlady. He often forgets I’m not just here to do his washing up.”

“His… Oh, so he _does_ —”

“Yes, dear, lives right up there.”

John blinked at them both, looked up the staircase, and then back at them. He could not believe that such an odd, lurking stranger had been right under his nose for all this time. Mrs. Hudson took off toward the kitchen, saying something about tea and nibbles. John missed it.

“Problem, Doctor Watson?” Sherlock asked, the same shit-eating smirk still plastered on his face.

“John,” he said and started to turn to follow after Mrs. Hudson, well-aware that she wasn’t going to let him leave without a cup of tea.

“Ah, Doctor _John_ , then. Can’t believe I’ve been getting it wrong this whole time. Usually my sources are quite reliable.”

John bit back a smile despite himself but didn’t falter in his pace.

“You will be staying, won’t you, John?” Mrs. Hudson was already pouring tea into three cups. She looked up at him expectantly, the teapot still hovering expectantly. “I made cookies, they’ll be out soon.”

“Unfortunately, not today.” John managed a tight-lipped smile, the annoyance of Sherlock’s presence creeping back. He switched Rosie’s position in his arms so she could see Mrs. Hudson. “I’ve got to get this one home. You can take her tomorrow, right?”

“Oh, of course!” Mrs. Hudson scuttled across the room and took Rosie from John again, planting a kiss to each of her cheeks, which a elicited squealing giggle from the baby and something that looked like a smile from Sherlock. “Same time, right?”

“Yes, just while I’m at work.” John smiled and took her back, pulling Mrs. Hudson in for a kiss on the top of her head. “Thank you, again. Dunno what I’d be doing if I had to hire a nanny or find a daycare.”

“Certainly not living in Central London, dear,” she said, patting John’s cheek. He caught a scoff from Sherlock, who immediately turned his back when John shot him a glance. “I’m happy to do anything I can.”

“Ta,” John muttered.

As he turned to go, he could feel Sherlock’s eyes on his back. It made him squirm. Even after he got back to his own flat, he felt watched, violated. It bothered him to know that Sherlock had been there with Rosie all day. He’d presumably been at 221B every other time Mrs. Hudson was looking after her while John was at work.

All of it was so utterly unsettling. It made John much more uneasy than he wanted to be.

He didn’t want Sherlock Holmes under his skin, but it didn’t seem there was anything he could do to stop it. It was becoming increasingly apparent that that was exactly where Sherlock Holmes wanted to be.


End file.
